


The Matter of Things

by highestkingbambi



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergent - Post Season Three Finale, Drug Use, F/F, M/M, Memory Wipe, NSFW, Oral Sex, Possessed Eliot, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-04-19 05:50:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14230680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/highestkingbambi/pseuds/highestkingbambi
Summary: The mind wipe was successful and everyone has been placed in magical witness protection.So they thought.An unspeakable evil is loose and it has its sights on revenge.Or, how Eliot came to be possessed.





	1. Chapter 1

Pull a beer. 

Pour a fifth of bourbon and add some cola. Repeat.

Next it’s giggles and a mojito just to fuck with the flow of the bar. He rolls his sleeves up like it’s second nature, and muddles the mint while a mindless college student tries to flirt with him. He wants to tell her that won’t make it free, but she can’t hear over the dubstep pounding out from the speakers.

Satisfaction fills him as he sees the realisation that she still needs to hand over more than twice what he earns an hour for a drink she’s already too drunk to remember. 

“Adam,” he can barely hear his name being called out from the register. He hesitates. Sometimes it doesn’t really feel like his name at all.

“What?” he asks, grabbing the cash from the woman and heads to the register. Manicured fingers are tapping impatiently on the bar, so he knows he’s not going to get a decent tip. Might as well procrastinate and fire her fury.

“Your tab just ordered. I need you to take these drinks over to the booth. You owe me.” 

His manager hands him a tray filled with a mixture of drinks and he wonders what kind of asshole would order a shot of whiskey and Tabasco. The mixture reeks and it makes him feel nauseous, but he has to admit it’s better than feeling the daggers of the student staring him down as he hands her change back. She doesn’t leave any tip, but he tries not to dwell on it. The tray in his hands warranted a tip bigger than anything he’d get from a single broke student. Even if he now had to split it with his manager. Even if he had to hold back from throwing up over the stench.

It’s lucky he’s significantly taller than the average clubber, and he can hold the tray above the mess of sweaty bodies moving like mindless drones to the repetitive beat. Holding it with two hands is hardly graceful, but it gets the job done. 

When he reaches the booth, Adam notices the sleazy record company executive that frequents the club sitting down with the DJ from the previous set. More dubstep, but at least the guy was good to look at. Clear dark skin but a little scruffy, with a few weeks worth of beard and a beanie and cardigan that had seen better days. Not quite a hipster, but somewhere in the general vicinity.

“So, Liam-is that short for something?” The record label guy asks the DJ while he grabs for the filthy shot of Hellfire. Adam has to hold his breath to stop from gagging at the sight of a grown man drinking a shot best left in a frat house.

“Nope, that’s just my name,” the DJ answers, visibly annoyed.

“I didn’t think that people would be called that where you’re from?” 

“I’m from Florida,” Liam says and Adam can see him mouth asshole at the end. 

“I meant...” the label guy’s voice drops as he considers his next words. 

“I know exactly what you meant, you racist motherfucker.” Liam stands up, and Adam is forced to place the tray of drinks on the table in front of him.

“Hey, who ordered the Vodka and Redbull?” Adam asks, trying to diffuse the situation.

“Who do you think you are talking to me like that? I can ruin you.”

“Fuck you.” Liam turns to leave the table, but gets a face full of liquor from the record label guy.

“You’ll never play a set in New York again.”

Adam sees Liam move to take a swing at the professional asshole. He quickly moves between them, to try and prevent the situation from further dissolving and prays it doesn’t cause him a black eye.

“Figures,” Liam drops the fist mere inches from his face and Adam can’t help but let out a sigh. “Protect the rich, racist assholes and screw those who actually bring people into your fucking bar.”

It’s not quite panic, but Adam feels his heart race even faster. Being on the side of the privileged record label asshole was the last thing he wanted to be doing. Taking a deep breath, he turns from Liam to face the record label executive. Dark curls slip from behind his ears and runs his hand through his hair to push it back off his face.

“You need to leave. Now.” Despite his heart rate, Adam keeps his voice steady. He’s dealt with enough drunk guys who think they’re gods gift to know that if he keeps his cool he’s intimidating enough to get them to go before they start to think they can take him. “Go on, get the fuck out.” 

He shoos the guy, who storms away from them in a huff. The guy mutters something about regretting taking the side of a sub par DJ, but then he’s disappeared from view and Adam can’t bring himself to care about the potential repercussions. 

“Hey,” there’s a hand on his shoulder and he turns to see Liam still standing there. “Thanks for proving me wrong about you.”

“Yeah, no trouble, we look after the talent here,” Adam replies, deciding it’s not the time to try and flirt with him. “Anyway I better get back to the bar.”

“Sure.” Liam says, peeling off the wet cardigan to reveal a loose fitting shirt. “When you get a chance, I’ll take a rum and coke.”

“On the house,” Adam promises with a smile that is only sort of flirting. 

He’s barely at the bar to make Liam’s drink when his manager is storming towards him with fire in his eyes. Adam slips his hands into his pockets and tries to look contrite. He knows what’s coming, he’s seen it before, but didn’t expect it to happen so quickly.

“You want to know how much you just cost this place?” His manager is furious. “Get your shit and go before I decide to charge it to you.”

He considers asking for the nights pay, but it’s a cash job and they were never favour level friends. Without a word, he grabs his belongings from behind the bar and throws on his coat and leaves through the back. 

The air is colder than he expects. Breath turns to mist as soon as it leaves, and he wishes he’d brought a scarf with him. His hands slip into his coat pockets and he braces himself for the two mile walk to his studio apartment. It’s nice enough, but there’s always something about it that doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel like home. 

Alone in the alley, he makes his way from the trash cans parked behind the club towards the lights of the main street. Blinking against the cold, he thinks he sees someone blocking the way, but they’re gone before he can be sure he even saw them. It can’t be later than 2am, so there should be people wandering around, and their absence unnerves him. Putting it down to being pissed off about losing his job, he tries to shake the feeling.

Bang.

Dropping to the ground, he brings his hands up over his head to protect himself. Enshrouded in darkness, he realises that the street lights exploded. All of them. Just the faint glimmer from the open door to the club provides light, and its hardly enough for him to see anything clearly. Picking himself up from the ground, he tries to make a run for the street ahead, but his feet betray him. He can’t move. The panic he’d earlier avoided was blooming inside his chest. Despite the cold, he felt sweat form on his brow and his hands were shaking inside his coat pockets.

“Will you play with me?”

Before him stands a young woman, dressed head to toe in a really convincing set of armour. He doesn’t know when ComicCon is on, but he’s pretty sure it’s not that weekend, and even if it was, she was a long way from any convention centre. 

“Look, I appreciate the dedication to your aesthetic, but that pick up line is just creepy and in all honesty, you’re not my type.” At least his mind was capable of standing it’s ground even if his body was paralysed with fear.

The knight steps closer to him, her face clearer now, and he feels something akin to déjà vu, only he’s definitely never been in this position before. She picks up her pace, and runs at him, one hand out as if they’re playing.

“Tag, you’re it,” she says as a glittery trail of steam rises out from her. 

Adam watches with a mixture awe and horror as the glitter swirls in the frigid air. From the corner of his eye, he watches as the knight screams and runs away from where he remains, frozen. It’s not fear that’s keeping him still. Something stronger, otherworldly. 

The glittering steam fills his vision, and is sucked inside him as he breathes. 

Slowly Adam starts to fade away.

Memories of a mediocre suburban childhood in Indianapolis give way to painful reminders of being chased through fields of corn and wheat while older boys called him faggot and his father threatening to ‘beat the queer right out of him’. 

“Eliot,” he says the name his father spat out. His name. He was Eliot. He is Eliot.

He has no control over his voice anymore and his limbs still won’t move in line with his thoughts. Eliot can see clearly, but he feels trapped. Walls close in around him.

“We’re going to have so much fun when we find him.”

It’s Eliot’s voice. Eliot’s mouth moving, but they aren’t his words. It wasn’t him. He was inside and someone, something else was in control.

More memories came flooding back. Magic. Brakebills. Margo. Fillory. Quentin. Castle Blackspire and the Quest...The Prisoner.

“You tried to hurt me, but I’m special.” His voice saying words he hadn’t thought. _Fuck._

He had failed. Fucked up more royally than he ever had even when he was a royal. And now he was paying the price. Eliot wonders if he should apologise. Maybe this being that had taken over him could be reasoned with, maybe it could let him go.

“I know why you tried to hurt me. You wanted to play with him too and you didn’t want to share.”

It was reading his thoughts, sort of, in addition to controlling his body. _Perfect._

“It’s going to be okay Eliot.”

They way it spoke, in his voice, reminds him of a second life he lead, more memories of a life that occurred and also didn’t. It’s almost childlike. As childlike as his twenty five year old tar filled vocal chords could sound. It reminds him of the way little Theodore mimicked his voice as they soothed his father after the loss of his wife. The thought sickens him, something so pure now tarnished by the connection to a being so terrible the gods had deemed it best to lock it away for eternity. 

“Don’t be sad Eliot. When we find him, we can play with him together for always.”

_Quentin._ Eliot knows exactly who his captor means. The one he had tried to protect from whatever it was in his body in the first place. And now, because of Eliot, he was in danger, and Eliot had no way to protect him. He couldn’t protect him from himself.

“We would never hurt Quentin.” His own voice sounds so creepy with the infantile inflections. “We love him.”

_Fuck._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot contemplates his situation while the being from Blackspire searches for Quentin.

Eliot’s incorporeal captor spends the entire night wandering the city. Searching, with alternating bouts of determination and desperation. It’s as if it’s caught a scent. Faint, but occasionally gaining in strength, only to be lost just as quickly in an errant wind.

He tries not to think about anyone but himself. Fearing that thoughts of his friends could set them in the crosshairs of whatever the so far nameless being inside was. Narcissism should be easy for him. Enough of his memories have returned to suggest that self indulgence was been a regular coping mechanism whenever when things had become too much to handle. 

Just like he was after Mike. 

That poor, innocent man, tragically caught up in Martin Chatwin’s dastardly machinations. Thinking of Mike would have had him drop to the floor, if he was still in control of his limbs. Eliot hopes that for Mike it had been different, that he’d been blacked out, or something similar. Anything other than being aware and helpless. Forced to watch through eyes no longer his own as his entire being was controlled into having sex with him, Eliot Waugh. Forced to watch as his body was used to attack multiple people. Kill a person and be killed in return.

Whatever his body was going to be forced to do would be so much worse being conscious. For that was all he was anymore. A consciousness. Trapped inside the body he had once considered his own. All he could do was hold out hope that it wouldn’t be permanent. That whatever his captor did while in his body didn’t get him killed. The knight, Ora - that was her name, he remembers that. She was released. She was alive. Maybe he could be too. 

Only he won’t. 

Eliot doesn’t want to think about Quentin, but he can’t help himself. If the price for keeping the prisoner from Blackspire out of Quentin was to keep it inside himself, he would pay that price one hundred times over. 

_Stop thinking about him._

He chides himself for slipping back to thoughts of Quentin, but at least he wasn’t thinking about Margo. There would be no way she would ever forgive him if he let Quentin come to harm. There is no way he could forgive himself if he brought her into it when he was already a lost cause. Where was she? Alone? Was she even Margo anymore?

_Stop thinking about her. You already put Quentin in danger, don’t make it worse._

He tries to think of anything but his best friends, but thoughts and memories are all he has. Without thinking of those he cares about, Eliot feels certain he’ll fade away. If he ever makes it through this possession, he probably won’t be sane.

“You’re making me tired,” it’s his voice again, but not his words. “I can’t be tired. I have to find him. He has to play with me.”

 _You’re tired because I would never spend this long exerting myself out of the bedroom._ He knows the innuendo will be lost on his captor, who seems to operate on the level of a child under ten. Like the kid from The Omen, but now in control of his body and likely to throw a tantrum leading to a demonic rampage. Only nothing evil had occurred. So far, his body wasn’t actually being used as a vessel for evil. They were just wandering New York City in the early hours looking for a man who had been willing to give up his freedom to be a friend to a lonely soul. 

_Dammit Quentin, why did you have to go and be the hero?_

“I’m bored with your stupid thoughts. Goodnight.”

***

Eliot was certain they, for he was resigned to being a spectator in his own body, had been in Midtown as dawn was breaking. Now they were somewhere near Flatbush, surrounded by throngs of commuters, rushing their way through morning peak hour. To him, no time has passed. It strikes him that the nameless being inside of him could turn him off at will. Like an A.I. He really should have paid more attention to the nerdy crap his best friends indulged in. 

Thoughts of fantasy and science fiction don’t last long. 

Eliot senses it as soon as nameless does. Even though he’s incapable of physical feeling, he still experiences the buzz of proximity. He wants to run, and it almost seems like he is running because his legs are moving and he heading in the direction he wants to go. Rounding a corner, he sees him. A little too Mumford and Sons for his liking, but Eliot can forgive him for that. After being separated, he’ll forgive him almost anything. 

“Quentin!” Eliot almost believes he’s broken through the possession, that being reunited is enough to free him. “I found you.” 

That wasn’t what he wanted to say. He’s still a prisoner. 

Quentin just looks confused. 

“Oh, uh, no, sorry. I’m Brian.”

Mindwipe potion. Fogg’s mind wipe potion. Eliot wants to scream at Quentin, who thinks he is Brian, to run away. Somehow even with his memory erased, he’s the awkward nerd he loved for a lifetime, fantasy books and nervous laugh in tow. 

“Do a card trick for me, Quentin.” Nameless isn’t reading his thoughts, it doesn’t seem to understand that the person it was looking for doesn’t really exist anymore. “Come on.”

Eliot feels his heart breaking, or at least the concept of his heart. Quentin as Brian looks like he thinks they’re flirting, and it’s been so long since Eliot has seen that nervous, flattered laugh. That same smile he had once elicited from Quentin when they thought he was going to be expelled back at Brakebills. How much better it would have been if that really was the worst thing that had happened to them?

“Will you play with me?” Memories and regrets are interrupted because not Quentin doesn’t look confused anymore. He looks concerned, maybe even afraid.

“I’m sorry, I think you’ve got me mistaken for somebody else.” Not Quentin makes a break for it while Nameless is confused and Eliot prays to anyone that he has a chance to disappear. 

_It’s not him, it’s a doppelgänger. You know, someone who looks the same but is actually a completely different person._ Eliot feels like he’s screaming at the top of his lungs, but the words are just falling on his own deaf ears. It's no use. Even through the possession, he can sense the magic radiating off Quentin. Perhaps he feels it even more so because of it.

They’re walking down the street, following Quentin’s path. He notices that his hair is shorter, hidden under a beanie. Eliot wonders if it was done by choice, of if the Library did that to him when they wiped his memory. If they would have done the same thing to him. Not that he would be able to tell if they had made any modifications to his appearance. He could only see what Nameless saw, and it was far more interested in Quentin than it would ever be with him.

No longer following Quentin, Eliot feels more magic than he ever had in his life. More than he had felt standing next to the font in Blackspire. More even than what had been radiating off Julia as a goddess. _Shit, don’t think about someone you haven’t already thought about._ They had travelled, from the street to an alley, and Eliot thinks its stupid that they walked all night instead of just doing that. 

“Don’t be scared,” it says with his voice, cracking his knuckles and shaking his arms. “This is great! There’s so much for us to do together.”

Not Quentin’s eyes are so wide, his body shakes and Eliot pleads with Nameless to leave him alone. _Just take me. You can have me._ It’s not listening to him. All it wants is Quentin and there is nothing Eliot can think to change it.

“I can’t wait to get started on all the people who really deserve our wrath,” it says, and Eliot is now the one panicking. Explicitly knowing that he was to be used to hurt people is much more dire than just expecting it. Having an unwitting Quentin as an accomplice - even worse.

“Um, no, look, please I’m not,” Not Quentin stutters. The poor thing nearly drops his coffee and Eliot knows he would be crying if that was something he was capable of in his state.

“I think anything is better when you do it with a friend.”

Not Quentin tries to run, but Eliot’s hand has taken him by the arm. Nameless is dragging him further from the crowds in the street as if he’s weightless. Surroundings disappear and the next thing Eliot sees is the interior of a tiny studio apartment. Alarmingly familiar, he notices an old photo of himself, Pre-Brakebills, taped to a mirror, just behind a terrified Quentin. This must have be where he lived while his mind was wiped. 

Was it better or worse to be conscious and complete helpless or to be someone completely different to the person you are supposed to be?

They had been through too much. He had fought through too much - bullying, harassment, hatred from his father. Suffered through guilt and depression, and a marriage to someone he would never be romantically in love with. Shit. Don’t think of her. Eliot had been deposed, chased by cannibals. He’d experienced an additional fifty years of memories. Thinking of everything he had been through, he knew that it was better to still be him, a prisoner in his own mind, than to not be him at all. 

_Well. That revelation is certainly a change from going to Fillory with a death wish._

“You’re not being fun.” Eliot can’t tell if Nameless is talking about him or if he means Quentin. The physical shell of the man he loved more than any other was stuck in the middle of a nervous breakdown and there was nothing he could do. 

There was nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I’ve settled on the being to go by Nameless for the moment as this is what it was credited as on IMDB. 
> 
> Also I lifted most of the dialogue direct from the show, which will be the last canon content for this fic.
> 
> Hope you liked it!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian is confronted by Possessed!Eliot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter for now, hopefully the next will be up in a couple of days.

Brian was having a fantastic morning. Naturally waking without an alarm and at the right time, he was feeling well rested and energized. Ten once forgotten dollars found in his pocket, and he was given a free upsize to his pumpkin spice latte from the cute barista at his local cafe. To top it off, there was a leather-bound copy of Hesiod’s Theogony, shamefully underpriced at his favourite bookstore and with a few hours before he needed to be in Manhattan for a meeting with his thesis advisor, he had plenty of time to take it to a park and read a few verses in the morning sun.

When a handsome stranger starts flirting with him the day is just getting better. The pickup line is a little weird, but at least it's original, so he plays along, Not unusually for Brooklyn, the flirtation quickly starts to get weirder. Brian continues to laugh for the appropriate length of time, and rushes to leave. To his distress, the stranger follows him down the street. With every glance that Brian takes, the stranger looks more familiar and more sinister.

Going to the park no longer seems like a good idea.

He barely remembers what happens next. First the stranger was behind him, then somehow in front, despite never passing him. They're talking to him about wrath and games and Brian feels like someone is going to walk out into a field tomorrow and either find his head in a box, or his body splayed out to reveal a puzzle. Either way, the whole situation has turned a shade more terrifying than the usual fear of being mugged. Brian nearly drops his coffee, but that’s the least of his problems. He thinks the stranger's eyes are glowing red, but that just has to be the fear taking. 

Protesting, he turns his feet. He’s not quick enough. The stranger grabs for his hand, and it feels disorientingly familiar, like a touch he’s experienced numerous times before. The alleyway disappears around him, and they appear inside a studio apartment. They’re standing alarmingly close to an unmade bed. Brian is back to feeling like he’s one step away from assault and gruesome murder.

Glassy-eyed and lost in thought, his kidnapper stares Brian uses the time to get his bearings. There is a window, but all he can see is the fire escape and brick wall behind it. They could be anywhere. Perhaps they weren’t even in New York anymore. A photo is taped to a mirror leaning against a wall. Clearly showing the man before him, a few years younger, wearing a plaid shirt while hanging off the Brooklyn Bridge as tourists were want to do. 

So they were in the stranger’s apartment. And the stranger could live in New York, but he definitely wasn’t from there. Not exactly helpful knowledge, but he files it away in the back of his mind. Brian's hands are shaking, his whole body vibrating with fear. From what he can see there is no way out of the room. Both the window and door are separated from him by the stranger in front of him, and he can't move back without falling onto the bed.

”You’re not being fun.” The stranger says and Brian thinks that's it, this is the place where he is going to die. 

”Please, don’t. I don't know who you think, but, I'm not...I'm Brian,” he pleads.

”No! You are Quentin and you just forgot!” The stranger stamps his feet, and the words are said with such confidence that Brian can't be sure which one of them has lost their mind.

”You have the wrong-” Brian feels his vocal chords tighten. A lump forms in his throat and it's not metaphorical. His kidnapper steps closer to him, and Brian feels an invisible strain around his neck. Immediately he thinks of Darth Vader’s force choke, but he knows that is a stupid thing to think. Star Wars is fiction, and he is probably just having a panic attack. Completely justified since he was currently being held against his will.

”No, you made a promise to Ora that you would love me and play with me. I know it's you, Quentin.”

Nothing in what the stranger was saying made any sense. He was just Brian. A grad student and tutor in Columbia’s Classics Department. He was definitely not a Quentin. The guy in front of him was delusional, and maybe a little simple. 

”I’m sorry, Quentin, I don't want to hurt you,” he says with genuine contrition.

The pressure around his throat begins to subside, and Brian finds his fear dissipate. He feels an uncomfortable familiarity between them and decides to try a different tactic.

”What is your name?” he asks, trying to keep his breathing steady. The stranger furrows his brow.

”I never got a name, but Ora always called me Love and Eliot calls me Prisoner, Monster or Nameless, mostly he calls me Nameless.” The stranger drops his head, and Brian sees a sadness in his eyes that almost has him feeling sorry for his kidnapper. Reminded of nervous middle school kids that sometimes took summer courses at the University, Brian hopes that talking to him will save his life. 

”And who are they? Ora and Eliot?” Brian’s voice falters at the second name. Ringing out like an echo in the back of his mind, it's too familiar but he doesn't know why. He doesn’t know any Eliot’s. Not unless he countered the kid from E.T. whom he always felt a kindred spirit with. But there is no way they are talking about a fictional character. Brian brushes it off as his mind simply jumping to conclusions.

”Ora was my friend, but she got tired and said you were supposed to take over looking after me. And Eliot...Eliot tried to hurt me, so I took over his body because you love him and that way you will always love me too.”

Brian resumes fearing for his life. He's torn between believing what his kidnapper is saying and the more logical explanation that his assailant is suffering serious dissociation issues. That has to be it. It couldn't be anything else. _But how did I get here?_ Brian takes pains not to rationalise aloud. Passing out would have made sense, but Brian knew that’s not what happened. _Teleportation_. A complete scientific impossibility, and yet that was how they moved from the street to the apartment in a manner of seconds. If teleportation was a thing, then possession certainly wasn’t the most ludicrous thought he could have. 

“You think too much. I’m bored,” the nameless stranger’s eyes flash red, and Brain knows that it hadn’t been his mind playing tricks on him earlier. He’s seen enough horror movies to know that was the sign of possession. He should have paid more attention in the Exorcist, or at least read more Constantine comics while he had the chance.

Stepping backwards, he stumbles onto the bed. The last place he wants to be. Not that he was in any position to run or fight when standing. All he could do was reason. Pretend it was a kid whose didn’t understand why their parents had sent them to college prep course before they had even started high school. Brian had worked with those before and he wasn’t too bad at bringing them into line. 

It takes him too long to think of a plan.

“You were supposed to show me a card trick, but maybe it’s better if I show you one of mine.” Brian tries to escape its grasp, but it only needs to touch him and they’ve teleported again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Janet.
> 
> While Brian is being kidnapped by a Possesed!Eliot, we check in with some of our other lost questers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the last chapter was so short, I’m posting the next one right away. 
> 
> There is a decent rating jump with this one too, so check the tags before you proceed.

Hotel sheets aren’t quite as luxurious as the ones that Janet has back home in LA. Still, when they are strewn across the bed, barely covering the naked body of her companion from the night before, she decides her complaints can wait until checkout. 

“Good morning, gorgeous,” she says, stroking her fingers down the soft dark skin of the woman whose name so far eludes her. She wants to roll over, maybe pick up where they left off the night before, but finds her left wrist bound to the bed head with a silk scarf that's not her own. A contented sigh leaves her lips, memories flooding back of the light bondage they had experimented with. 

Noticing her phone on the nightstand, she reaches across her body and uses her free hand to check the time. An hour to kill before her first meeting of the day. Plenty of time for a little morning workout.

”Did you want me to leave?” her guest asks, crawling from her position to hover over Janet. 

”Not yet, ” she grins, gesturing to the sheets that cover her. She wishes she could snap her fingers and magically remove them. Sharing her desires, Janet’s temporary lover removes the barrier between them. Once free of any encumbrance, her companion straddles her, revealing an elaborate mandala tattooed below her breasts. 

Janet reaches out, and trails her fingers over the ink and across her breasts. The artwork glows beneath her touch and Janet thinks she might still be a little drunk. She blinks, as if that’s all she needs to shake the feeling. The woman lowers herself to the bed, trailing wet kisses down Janet’s body. She stops over Janet’s bikini line, and looks up to catch her eyes. With a wicked smile, Janet nods and runs her hands through her lover’s dark brown tresses. No better way to start her morning, on the receiving end to an orgasm while tied up with expensive accessories. 

She remembers her guest is named Alice, and then remembers that it was that specific reason she had brought her back to her hotel the night before. 

Janet always wanted to fuck a girl named Alice. 

Alice is attentive, if a little tired. Her movements lack the urgency of the previous night. Fingers too gentle, her tongue too tentative as it works it's way over her lips. Janet wants her to move faster, put more pressure on her. She's tied up for fuck's sake, it should be easy. The phone starts ringing and Janet hopes it might work to turn her on.

”Don’t stop, ” she urges, as Alice finally starts sucking on her clit.

Janet picks up the phone, it’s an unknown number, but she's already decided to answer it so she doesn't back down. Isaac, the driver her company assigned for the trip is on the line explaining that he's waiting out the front because there have already been at least eight reported accidents that morning and he doesn't want to be late again. 

”Ugh,” she groans, ”five minutes.” It’s as much a promise to him as it is a time limit for Alice.

Janet drops the phone and doesn't know if she hung up or not. She pulls at Alice’s hair to speed her up. Soon enough she’ll know if Isaac is listening to her get off, and the thought of an audience helps her get a little closer to coming. Moaning against her, Alice adds a third finger to the two she was already working inside her, and Janet feels her body relax. A light buzz washes over her, and she knows that’s as good as it’s going to get for the morning.

Using her free hand, she pushes Alice’s head away from her before untying the scarf from her bound wrist. Janet tells her to put her number in the phone and motions for her to leave when she’s finished.

Seeing her handbag on the coffee table, Janet finds a pack of wipes and cleans herself off. Hardly time for a shower, she’ll settle for a whore’s bath and some perfume. Hanging over the television is a mauve bodycon dress and she pulls it over her head, while she slides her feet into black pumps. Picking up a jacket and the handbag, she makes her way back to the bed and grabs the phone. Janet wastes no time pushing Alice out of the room and into the elevator with her.

On their way down to the lobby, she finds an elastic in her bag and ties her hair in a high pony. She uses the mirrored wall to check her makeup. It's not great, but it's fixable and she wipes the eyeliner from beneath her eyes before reapplying concealer and lipstick. A quick roll of fragrance along her collarbone and Janet is as ready as she’s going to be.

As they exit the elevator, Alice leans in for a kiss, but she gets an ass grab and a wink. Janet knows she’ll be back that night if she texts her. 

At the front of the hotel, Isaac stands beside his car, holding the door open for her. She takes a beat to look him up and down and remembers she had sensed something off about him the day before. It’s not there right away, but she feels uneasy as she brushes past him to hop into the back seat. 

Janet knows she has a skill for reading people, but it could also have been the light hangover she’s developing. In any case, even if Isaac wasn't who he said he was, it’s not exactly something that bothers her. In her line of work, everyone is always hiding something. Ignoring the feeling she belts herself in and lets him drive her to the first meeting.

***

The meeting is a bust. An app that informs users which grocery stores are throwing out their fresh food so that ’freegans’ can pick up their meals without diving through the dumpsters late at night. Back in the car, Janet still feels nauseous every time she thinks of the word and the people that label themselves by it. It would have made more sense if they wanted to market the app to low-income people lacking regular access to fresh food. Still not something she would invest in, but it would have been admirable at least. Venture capitalism wasn’t about making the world a better place, but that didn’t mean she was heartless.

After dealing with self-righteous white guys with ginger dreadlocks and dirty feet in second-hand Birkenstocks, the nausea she had earlier chalked up to drinking too much was developing into migraine. 

Testing out a theory, she sighs dramatically and throws her hands above her head to make sure Isaac knows she wants his attention. 

”My head is killing me, you got anything for it?” she asks before leaning over the front seats and lowering her voice. ”Something a little stronger than Tylenol.”

Janet leans back into her seat, watching as Isaac takes a deep breath and swallows. Her judgement is never wrong.

”When you say, ’stronger than Tylenol’ are we talking orange bottle or ziplock baggie?” he asks, leading her to wonder if he was any good at his side job.

”Why don't you start driving while I make my decision?” Janet suggests, her tone making it more of a demand. 

While Isaac drives, Janet feels her migraine growing. Starting with simple nausea it quickly escalates and feels as though she's being stabbed in the left temple by an icepick. Meanwhile her eye feels like it is tearing back through her head by the nerves. Vision slightly blurry, she knows that if it gets much worse she won’t make it through the rest of her appointments. 

She's been getting these more often lately, each one worse than the last. At first, taking an aspirin was enough. A light release of the pressure in her head and she could pretend it never happened. As they kept coming though, over the counter products became about as effective as popping candy in her mouth. 

Back home she had a handful of remedies to get her fucked up and forget about the pain, but she couldn’t risk smuggling over from LA. Desperate, Janet tries to distract herself by pondering what Isaac might be able to provide her with. 

Considering his words she figures he’s got some decent opioids, which would be ideal for getting rid of the pain. There’s nothing like floating outside of her body, a painless spectre of unbound feeling, watching her empty body rid itself of the affliction. Sadly, those same perfect features were the opposite of what she needs to get through two more meetings. A good few hours were required and she only has half an hour at most before she’s not even fashionably late, but legitimately rude. 

On the other hand, she considers the cocaine he definitely has. It will get her through the meetings, and likely even make them bearable, but it's effectiveness on her pain was questionable at best. Not to mention she doesn’t know Isaac well enough to trust the purity of his stash. 

What she really needs is weed. The most innocent of the lot, and based on her situation, the most effective. Just enough to numb the pain, not enough to make her useless for the rest of the day. Surely he’s got something that’ll work.

Finally, they’re inside a car park and Isaac pulls into a space between two white vans. Not suspicious at all. 

Janet misses LA. 

He leans over the passenger seat, while Janet closes her eyes, struggling against the ever increasing pain. She opens her right eye to watch what he’s doing and thinks she sees a faint orange aura around him. Shaking her head, she forces the other eye open and the glow quickly fades. He beckons her forward and she leans through the gap between the front seats to see him open a leather art case.

“I drive a lot of people like you,” he says. “High powered suits that need a little extra energy to make it through the day.”

“Your qualifiers are shit,” she reprimands him. 

“You want this or not?” He offers her a small bag of white powder that looks incredibly tempting but she’s already decided it’s a bad idea. It’s not what she needs, even if it is what she wants.

“Maybe later.” Janet’s fingers hover over a larger bag with a handful of dark green buds, only for Isaac to swat them away. 

“Oh no, you don’t want that,” he grins like the Cheshire Cat. “That will knock you out and it’s only 11 am.” He grabs the lime green and purple strain beside it. “You want this - straight from Holland - well, by way of Toronto-“ he’s explaining the properties of the drug but Janet doesn’t care. So long as it numbs the pain long enough to make it through the rest of her meetings with overeager tech nerds, she doesn’t care how it got into his little bag or that he feels comfortable enough to drive around NYC with so much of it under his seat. 

“So how much do I need to pay you to roll it for me too?” She cuts off his boring story, desperate for the relief. 

“What, like you don’t know how?” he asks, and Janet makes a mental note to bring the smartass down a notch once she’s feeling more herself. 

“Do I look like someone who does this kind of shit herself, or so I look like someone that has shit done for them?” she snaps at him, but she’s desperate for relief.

“Hmm, joint pre-rolled?” he drags it out and Janet wants to wring his neck. “$60.”

“Bullshit,” she spits. 

“Supply and demand, baby,” he says with that stupid grin she’s already starting to hate. 

Janet fills with anger for him but also kinda wishes she was in the right mental state to bang him right there. Isaac was showing the kind of attitude she wishes her potential investments would give her. Not the shy awkward bullshit of men who think they’re too good to have women in their ‘leadership group’ but actively froth at the mouth when she walks in to a meeting. Fuck him and his unearned confidence. 

“Make it fast and make it two, you still get an undeservedly high mark up and you have a deal,” she bargains terribly knowing he’ll agree. She doesn’t have the time or patience to enter a negotiation.

Isaac agrees. They always agree.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super short chapter to tide things over until I can get back to regular posting.

Neon lights reflect off the puddles in the abandoned storage lot. In the distance, freight trains rattle, interrupting the silence of the night. Ahead, she sees the lights of a car, snaking towards her though the maze of containers. A regular buyer, her last of the night. 

Price already agreed upon, they make the exchange and she tries not to think about what he’s going to do with the product she provides. It’s not her job to care about the results. She’s doing this because she has to. It’s the only way. 

Once he’s gone, she loiters in the darkness. Head hung in shame at what she’s returned to. It’s not her fault. Only that's not entirely the truth. She had a choice, she still does. 

The crunch of gravel underfoot causes her heart to flutter. There is a familiar sound of a person appearing out of nowhere and the sharp intake of breath upon arrival. 

She doesn’t dare to hope it’s him. It never is. 

“How much do you have for me tonight Kady...or is it Amanda today?” 

Wandering over, face hidden in shadow, she knows exactly who it is. Even without seeing him, she can imagine the smug grin and judgemental eyes. 

When he steps into view, all Kady wants to do is punch him so hard in the mouth that his jaw hangs off its hinges. Everything about him pisses her off; from his drab grey suit to his bullshit accent. 

“We had a deal, dickhead, I unload this for you and you get me a way to bring back Penny,” she snarls at him. Hands in her pockets, she clutches the money he asks for and the bottle of fairy dust she’s kept for herself. So far she hasn’t used it, even when she desperately wanted to. 

“I said I’d get you a way to talk to him.” He walks towards her, arms up in the air in a sign of parley. “No promise of rescue, love.” 

“You’re a fucking cunt, you know that,” she spits back at him. 

“You’ll find that’s a term of endearment where I’m from, love,” he gives her a wink and continues to close the gap between them. 

“I swear to god if you call me love one more time…” Kady steps forward, her fists held high ready for a fight. 

“You’ll what? Rat me out to The Order for selling fairy dust? You do that and they’ll know you didn’t forget. Say goodbye to ever talking to Penny, or stalking your little broken goddess.” His arms are still up in the air, and he looks at her in amusement. 

“How do you?” Caught off guard, Kady takes a step back.

“How do I know you spend your days watching her? Protecting her? You’re pretty fucking obvious, love. It’s amazing she hasn’t noticed.” 

“You stay away from her,” Kady snarls. 

“Let’s just get this over with then, yeah?” He throws out his hand for her to pass him the cash. 

“Give me the spell.” Kady waves the cash in front of him before crossing her arms across her chest. She lifts her head and juts her chin out towards him in a power pose of defiance. 

“For fucks sake. You’re a real bitch aren’t you? Fine, we do it at the same time and then you can piss off and pull that rod out of your ass.” He produces a handful of worn pages, obviously torn from one of The Library’s books. 

They conclude their deal and Kady snatches the pages. She retreats from him, and waits until he disappears before making her next move. 

She doesn’t dare look at the pages until she’s somewhere safer than the empty container yard. Kady makes her way out to the nearest main road and hails herself a cab.

In the back of the taxi, she glosses over the components required to complete the spell to contact Penny. Her Penny. Not the replacement she’s heard rumours about being a DJ. Her Penny would never do that. 

The ingredients are a cinch to aquire. All that time searching for Our Lady Underground has her well prepared for the ridiculous grocery lists of dimension spanning spells. That’s going to be the easy part. 

When she sees the power requirements to cast, Kady knows that even with the stash of fairy dust, she can’t do it on her own. She takes a deep breath and sighs loud enough to distract her driver. 

“Change of address,” she tells him, full of reservations. 

It’s time to wake up Julia.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Janet and Isaac spend a little more time together. Is it enough to help them regain their memories?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this story is kind of getting away from me. Chapters are happening as they happen, but I do have an overall plan so I hope you stick with me!

Having only risked half the joint before her meeting, Janet finds herself cursing her own timidity. It's another fucking rideshare startup. In pain and lacking the patience to get through the meeting, she blasts the guys, for their lack of originality. When she gets back to LA she's going to slaughter her assistant Sophie. 

There is so much more she could say to tear the delusional college kids a new one, but Janet knows not to destroy them in case their next idea isn't so fucking stupid. Instead she leaves her card, suggests they learn from Uber’s misogynistic mistakes and returns to the car. Isaac is waiting for her, holding a hot dog with the lot. Staring at the food like it's the last edible thing on the planet, she considers snatching it from him. 

”I hope you're not a vegetarian, ” he says, handing it to her wanting grasp.

”Lucky for you I'm as partial to a good weiner as I am a bean taco,” she smirks, grateful she doesn’t have to be a bitch about this too. 

There is no way to eat a hot dog seductively, but Janet does her best. Isaac might be a dick, but the time she's spent with him has been the best part of her day.

”Fuck the next appointment, ” she says, her mouth full of bun and cheese. ”We're going back to my hotel and you're bringing your magic case.” 

Sophie can take the blame if anyone calls her out about missing the meeting. She didn’t read the brief anyway, but experience tells her she won't be missing out on anything worth her time. 

Isaac doesn't need to be asked twice. Opening her door, he waits until she slips inside before making his way around to the driver's seat. While they sit in traffic, Janet lights up the second half of her joint and watches him through the rearview mirror. He drives them back to the four-star chain hotel she is staying at. 

Janet is still salty that the firm wouldn't even spring for a boutique. She’s a partner in everything but name, it’s the least they could do. Fucking basic suits. 

By the time they reach the hotel and organise to have the parking charged back to her company card, Janet’s migraine is back with a vengeance. The ride up to the 19th floor is torture, and she focuses all her rage on the assholes back in LA couldn’t even get her into a studio. 

Once they enter the room and Isaac lays his case open on coffee table, Janet feels her rage subside. She wants to get high, maybe laid, and definitely order an obscene amount of room service. All excellent coping mechanisms for dealing with the pain in her head. There was something about Isaac though that told her he wasn’t the one she should be fucking. 

While he takes care of the smoke detectors, Janet absconds to the bathroom. The mirror shows the dark bags forming beneath her bloodshot eyes. She wants to pretend that it’s just from the weed, but she knows the migraine is responsible for most of it. Splashing cold water on her face, she tries to clean herself up—anything to look like her usual self. 

After applying a light coat of concealer beneath her eyes, she changes into something more comfortable. In a champagne coloured shift, and matching monogrammed robe she returns to the room. With a false swagger to hide her pain, she makes her way over to the bed. She sits on the end and crosses her legs over the edge—feigning seduction to help lift her spirits. 

Isaac removes his jacket and hangs it over the back of a chair. He rolls up his sleeves and gets to work opening up his case. “Are we sticking with the familiar or you ready to shake things up?” he asks, picking up the same little ziplock bag of cocaine. 

Tempted, she stares him down and slowly uncrosses her legs. “What’s it going to cost?” she asks, leaning back on her elbows. Her robe starts to slip, revealing her golden brown sun kissed shoulder. 

Licking his lips, Isaac pulls a tiny metal spatula and an alcohol wipe out of his shirt pocket. Using the wipe, he rubs down the steel. He lets it dry, before making his way over to Janet and using the spatula to lift out a small mound of the white powder. “A taste, before we discuss price,” he explains as if it is common custom. 

Janet cups her hand beneath it and brings her nose to the powder. Pressing a finger against the left side of her nose, she sniffs it up, involuntarily shaking as the powder enters her body. She returns to her former position and waits for it to hit her. 

Chancing a moment of peace, she closes her eyes. The darkness helps, but she can’t keep them closed for long. Just a quickly as she feels respite, it’s replaced by the hard pumping of her blood vessels. Nerve endings back on high alert from then combination of drugs and pain. She should have stuck to the weed. 

Slowly she reopens her eyes, spying Isaac leaning over his case while he makes himself a joint. The off feeling about him is back, making her nervous in her vulnerable state. She sees his orange aura again before he turns to look at her—something is wrong with his face. Extra hair and teeth bared, there is something animal about him. Terrifying and yet familiar. 

“What the fuck was that laced with?” she snaps, trying to cover her fear. 

“Nothing,” he answers. “What’s your beef?” he asks, noticing the change in her mood. 

His face reverts back to normal, and she thinks she must be seeing things. Migraine messing with her faculties making a simple mix of drugs affect her in ways they shouldn’t. 

“Wait, what’s the date again?” he asks with a slight hint of panic in his voice. 

“April 30” Janet says, warily moving herself further up the bed, away from him. Her hand catches on her robe, causing it to fall from her body. 

“I gotta bounce,” he says suddenly, snapping up his case, but not before grabbing two pills. “Vicodin, on the house,” he adds, leaving them on the coffee table for her. He rushes past her, leaving his suit jacket over the chair and exits the room in a hurry. 

Seeing the jacket, Janet gets off the bed and grabs it for him, leaving the room in time to see him waiting at the elevator. “Yours, and thanks for the Vicodin,” she says, genuinely grateful for the pills she should have taken in the first place. She turns to go back to her room, revealing to Isaac a huge M, ornately tattooed onto her back. 

“Margo?” he says, just loud enough for her to hear as the elevator opens its doors with a ding. 

Turning to question why he called out a name, she misses him. “What a fucking weirdo,” she says to herself, returning to her room. 

Once inside, she grabs a pill from the coffee table and swallows it dry. The name Isaac said repeats in her mind while the memory of what she saw in his face refuses to leave. 

“Margo?” She says out loud. It sounds so familiar, yet she doesn’t know why. 

Opening her window to clear her head, she sees the sun setting slowly and the faint outline of a full moon rising over the city. It might have been an average chain hotel, but at least the view wasn’t so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this on a plane and haven’t done more than a cursory edit. If you see any mistakes, please let me know. 
> 
> Also, i’d love to see your speculations, if you’re game to share them!

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, comments and critiques are welcomed!


End file.
